


eyes like the deepest ocean (heart like broken glass).

by cacographyx



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:28:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29420136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cacographyx/pseuds/cacographyx
Summary: Maybe Thomas just wanted to start over. Re-meet Alexander, begin fresh.Too bad Alex is dead now.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton & Thomas Jefferson
Kudos: 6





	eyes like the deepest ocean (heart like broken glass).

**Author's Note:**

> wrote a short one-shot in like thirty minutes. im sorry i havent worked on my tua series.

It is not a long walk to your destination, yet you feel the need to take the most amount of time, slowing down.

Contradictions to its finest.

He was not your lover. He was not your best friend. He was not close to you.

You debated and argued and fought over subjects that seem so silly, so childish now. Death puts things into perspective, and this is no exception.

He never liked the cold before.

The coat you left behind purposefully just so he’d find it and wear it outside. You didn’t care as long as he was warm.

Frozen droplets of water, but not quite ice. The snow that starts to fall from the heavy, grey clouds give the mood almost eerie connotations. It makes the roses you’re carrying with you obtain a nice frost on the petals.

Roses are such cliche flowers to lay on a grave, but they hold so much meaning, so much power. You’re only hoping that they will be able to convey everything that you should’ve told your deceased acquaintance before he passed.

He was so big on never taking his time, grasping every opportunity offered to him, taking things fast and efficiently.

Ironic that his doom was caused by him throwing away his shot and his enemy unwilling to wait for it? Sure.

Snow crunching underneath your feet, you continue to make your way downtown, ignoring any questioning or even pitying looks you’re given.

Life is a book, each chapter containing the messy details of one’s pathetic life. A single bullet, a single spark, and fire is engulfing one’s narrative. Smoke envelopes the scene and the flame burns down one’s legacy until one is nothing but a pile of ashes.

His words, not yours.

He always had a way with words. A pessimistic poet, people liked to call him. 

Was he ever suicidal? Possible, but difficult to say. His only goal in life was to create something that would outlive him. Fighting for independence so that future generations could be free. The sacrifices he made for the well being of others.

He was never as selfish as he was made out to be. Arrogant? Of course. But you know that the one laying six feet under the cold, hard ground at this very minute would trade his life for anyone else’s so that they may have more time.

Five more minutes.

Life is a figment of one’s imagination. Dependent on time and time only. You will never understand anything.

Gates creak and he winces at the unpleasant noise, violently disrupting your rather philosophical mood. Otherwise ignoring it, you walk carefully down the snow-covered dirt path until you find the gravestone you’ve been meaning to visit.

“Overdue, I suppose.” Your voice is gravelly for it not being used in days. There is almost no point in speaking anymore now that he’s gone. 

You slowly lay down the roses in front of the carved stone, toying with them until they are all in a perfect position.

God, you can be so dramatic sometimes.

But you find that you don’t mind. Life is not real. It is silent. There is no one outside. The snow continues to fall in soft flurries. 

No one replies to your previous comment. You sort of expected someone to.

Maybe you’re a medium.

Scoffing at the idea, you settle on your knees in front of the gravestone. You read the writing without processing what it actually says. Idiotic. No point at all.

“Three years. Maybe you wanted to die, I will never know the answer anymore. But you made it three years without him… Philip, before you went.”

You are not aware of the tears that run down your pale cheeks. Your hands do not reach up to wipe them away. You feel so warm and cold at the same time.

“I’m not sorry for all of the arguments and debates we had.”

It doesn’t sound harsh to you, and maybe it isn’t supposed to be harsh. Life doesn’t exist. Nothing is real. You don’t know anything anymore.

“But I am sorry that that was all we had.”

Ten minutes pass with absolutely nothing to break the silence. Like a spell cast over the entire city, just for you.

Pathetic.

You finally stand up, mentally refusing to rid your clothes of any snow sticking to you. Without sparing another glance at the gravestone (or the roses for that matter), you spin on your heel rather ungracefully and leave the cemetery.

This time, the gate bothers you more.

You are not a sinner. You are a sinner. You are not a sinner. You are a sinner.

Love doesn’t discriminate. Life doesn’t discriminate. Death doesn’t discriminate. It just takes and takes until one has no more left to give.

Then the flame begins.

Maybe life is real. Maybe it does exist.

You stop by an alley. A total of two people walk by you, both nodding their respects. 

Oh, right. You’re the president.

There is nothing you can do to stop the next wave of tears that come. They flow out of your eyes like the snow falling from the clouds.

Maybe nothing is real.

The tears fall for the absence of him, the inability to talk with him again, the motion of never seeing him write feverishly for the rest of your life.

You will not kill yourself to join him because you are far too weak for that.

And you realize that you lost a brother. You may have fought and insulted each other using language only you two would understand and practically hated each other’s ideals and beliefs, but a little more and you could’ve been great friends.

Revolutionary ideas only come late and the party started years and years ago.

You enjoy the silence of the streets. The screams and cries that were once here has been replaced with the idea of nothing at all.

He decides life isn’t real.

“Alex, you would like it uptown. It’s quiet uptown…”

**Author's Note:**

> im sorry.  
> -  
> anyways, leave kudos and a comment if you liked this. have a good day/night.


End file.
